


Ancient Offerings

by SAPhyre



Category: Labyrinth (1986)
Genre: Drama, F/M, Fae & Fairies, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:55:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24064672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SAPhyre/pseuds/SAPhyre
Summary: It was the blood that called him. Blood and salt. Iron and earth. Ancient offerings to an ancient god. He could feel her fragile as a newborn bird. A whisp of a thing, barely anything at all. But when she looked at him he knew. This one. This one would be his.
Relationships: Jareth & Sarah Williams, Jareth/Sarah Williams
Comments: 3
Kudos: 42





	Ancient Offerings

**Author's Note:**

> This is an experimental piece exploring an alternative interpertation of the event of the Labyrinth.

It was the blood that called him. Blood and salt. Iron and earth. Ancient offerings to an ancient god. They tickled the senses. A tug in the ether. Ringing with such purity of spirit he could not help but stop. And _look._

It was always disorienting, the subtle shift from _Here_ to _There_. The way the world grew smaller yet more. The way the song grew muffled and indistinct, but all the more beautiful.

He came as he came in those far away days, in a flutter of wind and a swirl of leaves. An owl perched in the branches. White as snow. Ghost owl, the natives had called him, in that rough, clumsy way of mortals. It had pleased him to play the part. Now, ages after, that form had become as comfortable as his own skin.

Curiosity compelled him. The changes at this distance were so much clearer. It had been long since last he had been called thus. Long enough that the forests had dwindled, and streams had dried. Only the descendants of those first trees remained: oak and ash, yew and hawthorn, flowering with the first blooms of May. Once upon a time, brides would come to this place to be blessed, smearing their first moon blood on gnarled roots in hopes of a fruitful womb.

A rare few would dare ask more. Sometimes he had obliged them. He had been such a vain thing then. So young and so easily amused. He had craved their worship. Basked in their fear. A feast for the senses. And it had been great entertainment watching them. Seeing how his gifts were used, how his legends were made, and the stories twisted.

And how they twisted them. God. Demon. Spirit. Ghost… He had been made and remade so many times, the tales themselves had become meaningless. But every tale held one truth: there was power in blood.

And those legends, he doubted, had any hand in this summoning.

His head cocked. She was such a tiny thing. Small and thin and delicate as a new bird. What a pity that there had been no wings to catch her fall. Those small bones had broken, shattered against wood and stone. The blood that had called him was a halo of red beneath that little head.

By all accounts, she should be dead.

Yet this little one, it seemed, was made of sterner stuff. She breathed and her eyes, the green of a new leaves, flickered once to his. Such a tiny thing. But so defiant. So full of dreams. So full of life. In that glimpse alone he had spied an eternity of possibilities just waiting to be born.

What a pity he thought, it would be to see them end.

His feathers ruffled. The gold disks of his eyes closed. Choices spanned before him; their endings remained unclear. Too young. Too malleable. Barely anything at all, the universe, it seemed, had not yet decided what to make of her. Taken now she could become anything…

Or nothing at all.

The feathers faded. A mantle of white, long and sweeping replaced them as he stood as a man. What would she become, he thought, left in this world? What dreams would she dream? What deeds would she do? To take her now would be to end all supposition. The Summerlands would mold her as it molded all children into something all its own. Those little limbs might twist. That white skin might blacken. Hooves might replace those little feet…

Or he could shape her, he mused. He had done it enough in his time when a mortal had proven particularly delightful. Yet they had been men and women grown. Their essence had been set, their talents and taste as integral to their existence as each syllable of his name. Not this one. Changing this little one now would guarantee nothing but a doll of his making. Perfect. Predictable. Boring.

No, he thought. That would not do. He had enough of worshippers. Enough of servants. Enough enemies, entertaining, though they might sometimes be. He wanted a challenge. Excitement not abeyance. Thrill not danger. Love not worship.

He decided.

He knelt. All that pretty, red blood soaked into his cape. His knees where they dug into the earth were wet with it. He did not need to touch. He did not need to manifest at all, but it pleased him to do this small, human thing. His lips ghosted against her skin. The salty tang of blood coated his tongue. An offering accepted. A contract sealed.

He smiled. In his arms that little body stirred. Green eyes blinked open, wide, and aware.

“Hello, precious.”

**Author's Note:**

> Well-thought critique is appreciated, suggestions are welcome, and reviews are inspiring!


End file.
